


Tea and Crumpets and the Mathematics of Mummyhood

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, It will all be all right in the end, M/M, Mummy knows all, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy Holmes has tea at the Ritz with Mary and fixes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Crumpets and the Mathematics of Mummyhood

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, folks. Not sure where this came from, but here it is and as a fix I am fairly pleased. Hope you like it. Let me know, as always.
> 
> Two weeks and I will be back in London for Worldcon and Richard III. Anybody want to grab a pint? Or a cuppa? Or breakfast at Speedy's?

Mathematics is a game played according  
to very simple rules.

-David Hilbert

Perhaps the failure to pay proper attention could be blamed on her condition. Yes, that sounded entirely reasonable. Wasn’t it generally accepted that a woman well advanced in pregnancy sometimes fell into a sort of physical and mental lassitude? A dulling of her edges? Honestly, simply because her particular edges had been so bloody sharp {Moriarty did not employ the second-rate] Mary had thought that the weaknesses of ordinary women would pass her by. Sadly, that did not appear to be the case, because her mind was more than a little fuzzy these days.

That fuzziness had to be the only sensible explanation for why she now found herself walking into the Palm Court at the Ritz absolutely unprepared for whatever was to come. But really, it was only tea with a sweet old lady. What could go wrong? Even if that old lady was named Holmes.

So Mary Watson nee Morstan nee…well, none of that mattered at all now, did it? She took a deep breath, placed a smile on her face and followed the snooty maître ‘d across the room to where Mrs. Holmes was waiting.

“Hello, Mary,” the other woman said.

She dropped heavily into the chair that had been pulled out for her. “Mrs. Holmes,” she said after her breathing returned to normal. Good god, she thought, how long is it going to take me to get back into fighting form when this is over? Not that it mattered, because she wouldn’t be going back to work anyway. Well, probably not. Still. “Hello. How nice of you to invite me.”

“Hmm,” was all Mrs. Holmes said in ambiguous reply. Then she made some subtle gesture and a mere moment later, tea and crumpets appeared. “On such a blustery day, is anything more comforting than a warm crumpet dripping in real butter? Especially when it is served with perfectly brewed lapsang souchong? They make the crumpets especially for me.” She sounded delighted.

Of course they did. The Holmes family did not live like the ordinary people. Or even the extraordinary ones. It was all down to old money versus new. Mary realised that. Even if the younger son chose to live in a hovel and the elderly couple themselves resided in a quite ordinary suburban home, they all did so with a sense of entitlement that took generations to hone. Mary looked at the crumpets, a bit unsure. Honestly, her palate was not what it had been. Most of the time now, her appetite leant more towards plain toast and P.G.Tips, [unless it was one of those days when all that suited was Branston pickle and cheddar] but she still smiled in agreement with the old lady. For several moments, they busied themselves with preparing their tea just as desired, as across the room, a pianist began to play. It was all very civilized and [shamefully] Mary let herself relax even more. Damned hormones.

Finally, Mrs. Holmes [and how ridiculous was it that those two grown men still called her Mummy?] took a small bite of her crumpet, followed it with a sip of tea, and then fixed her gaze on Mary. There was something familiar in those eyes, but Mary didn’t take the time to think about it. [Stupid!] “You are probably wondering why I issued the invitation,” the Holmes matriarch said.

“Well, yes, a little. Not that it isn’t lovely, of course.” Mary took a rather larger bite of her crumpet, which was, in fact, quite lovely. And she was eating for two, after all. Wasn’t that what they always said?

Mummy [well, what else to call her?] gave what might [or might not] have been labeled a smile and suddenly Mary remembered that this woman had given birth to Mycroft Holmes. There was something unnerving about the thought. “I simply thought that it was time---past time, really---for us to have a bit of a chat.”

An almost imperceptible edge in her tone put Mary on [shamefully belated] alert. “About?” Mary murmured, before taking a sip of the smoky tea.

“Well, I have been curious about something.” Mummy took another bite of her crumpet and seemed to savor it.

“And that is?”

“Why an intelligent woman, which you undoubtedly are, ever believed that you could shoot and very nearly kill my baby and get away with it.” Her voice remained level. “It puzzles me why you thought, first, that I would never find this out and second, why you believed that I could know the truth and do absolutely nothing about it.

Mary managed to set the cup back in its saucer with a minimum of rattling. “What?” Her lips tightened briefly. “He told you?”

“Of course he didn’t tell me.”

She should have known. “Mycroft, obviously.” That interfering bastard. He should learn to mind his own business, although Mary thought it would be wiser not say that aloud right at this moment.

“Not Mycroft, either.” Her gaze flickered over Mary as if she were nothing more than a particularly boring algorithm. “I raised both Mycroft and Sherlock,” she said crisply. “Can you really be so foolish as to believe that I am without resources of my own, Ms. Morstan?”

“Mrs. Watson,” she muttered.

“Well, yes.” Mummy seemed to consider another crumpet,but then instead only drank some more tea. “I admit to not knowing John Watson as well as I should do, especially considering his paramount importance in my son’s life.”

Mary wished that she hadn’t smirked at that a bit, because Mummy’s voice chilled.

“But what I do know, I like very much. He seems to be an honourable man.”

Mary decided that perhaps she needed to step up her game a bit. Even if it did seem somewhat overdue. “Then that should be an end of it. I am his wife and he is, as you say, an honourable man.”

“An end of it? Really?” Mummy shook her head. She apparently changed her mind about the crumpet and put a second on her plate. “You do disappoint me, Mary. Perhaps you are not as clever as I had thought. May I ask you something else?”

“It’s your tea party,” she said with a shrug.

“Did you ever actually ask John for his forgiveness? Or even, for that matter, Sherlock, the man you shot?”

She crossed both arms across her belly. “I only did what I had to do. To protect my family. Wouldn’t anyone do the same?”

“Just to be sure I understand: You were protecting your family from an unarmed man who loves your husband deeply and who had been nothing but a friend to you?”

Mary felt a flush suffuse her face. “He has no business loving my husband.”

“Is that also John’s opinion?”

There was no answer to that which would not paint her in a bad light. Well, a worse light. “Anyway, he didn’t die.”

Mummy stared at her and now the likeness to Mycroft was inescapable.. “Yes, in fact, he did. Then, by some miracle, he managed to drag himself back to life. But that does not negate your guilt.”

“Why should I feel guilty for doing what was necessary? Are you even aware that he actually told John to take me back?” Mary wondered if Mummy had noticed her refusal to utter Sherlock’s name.

Mummy gave a soft laugh that was in no way reassuring. “Of course he did. He has a continuing desire to keep John safe. After all, the man is sleeping beside an assassin who has a penchant for shooting anyone who gets in her way. Of which fact Sherlock has firsthand evidence.” 

A fresh pot of tea was delivered and Mummy poured herself another cup. She did not offer any to Mary.

“My marriage is not your business,” Mary snapped. “Nor that of your precious son.”

Mummy sipped tea and listened to the soft piano music for a moment. “I know you have said that if John were aware of your true history, he would cease to love you.”

“He burned the memory stick.” It felt good to be a bit smug.

Mrs. Holmes dismissed her words with a wave. “What does that matter? It was empty anyway.”

Mary felt her mouth drop open.

“You continue to underestimate me, Ms. Morstan.”

With somewhat more bravado than she was actually feeling, Mary sneered. “Whether I ever asked or not, John already forgave me for shooting your precious son.”

“Did he?” Mummy mused. “I wonder. Isn’t it more likely that he simply buried the anger beneath a veneer of forgiveness, because as I said, he has a surfeit of honour? Or what he sees as honour, because he made a vow to you. To some people, including men like John and Sherlock, a vow means something. And there is the child, after all.”

Mary felt her arms tighten over her trump card. “Yes.”

Mummy looked as if she were going to say one thing, but then something else came out instead. “I wonder, too, if you honestly believe that Mycroft would simply ignore what you have done?”

“Please, don’t make me laugh. Even I know that those two don’t get on at all.”

Mummy gave a soft laugh. “Oh, those boys. Sherlock considers them to be archenemies and Mycroft does his best to live up to that expectation. Until the moment someone tries to kill his baby brother.”

Finally, Mary wondered why the bloody hell she was still sitting here listening to this obviously crazy old woman. Her lips twisted into a grimace. “It was Mycroft who sent him off on a suicide mission.”

“Yes…and then summoned him back to deal with a crisis.”

Something in the way the words were said told Mary the truth. “The whole Moriarty thing. Mycroft was behind it.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He is very clever.”

Mary began to prepare herself to stand; it took some work. “You know, I think this pleasant interlude is over. I really have no interest in your opinion of my marriage. John and I have our own life to lead and very soon neither you nor your sons will have a role to play in that.”

“I will give John your file. And this time it will not be empty.”

“He still won’t read it.”

“Will he not?”

“I’m going now.” Mary braced herself on the arms of the chair.

Mrs. Holmes just smiled faintly. “Will he read the paternity report, do you think?”

All of the air escaped Mary’s lungs abruptly and she dropped back into the chair, staring at Mrs. Holmes. “You bitch,” she said.

“Oh, just a Mum,” she said. “You should not have shot my baby.”

So it was time to deal. She could do this. After all, she had made deals with Moriaty. And Magnussen. “What do you want?”

“From you? Nothing. Mycroft was inclined to simply bring down the legal systems of several nations upon your head. But you are having a baby and I feel some sympathy with that. Still, you must be punished. So I have been working on a plan that will both satisfy my need for justice and make my sons happy.”

“What is that?”

“You are going to vanish.”

Mary felt the blood rush from her head. “You cannot…John will…”

For a moment, Mrs. Holmes looked a bit troubled. “I do regret causing John pain. But once he knows the full truth, I feel sure that he will survive. And after a time, thrive. We cannot forget that John is at heart still a soldier. And I know that Sherlock will do what he can to help.”

Mary knew that the expression on her face was ugly. “That bastard has always wanted John. He hated me even before what happened.”

“Before you deliberately shot him down, you mean?” Mrs. Holmes said archly. Then she shrugged. “Sherlock has always been an excellent judge of character.”

Mary wished that she would just get on with it.

Mrs. Holmes seemed to feel the same and she turned brisk. She reached into her handbag and took out a letter. “It has all been written down here for you and lacks only your signature. It seemed best to stick with a simple story. You have realised that this life as a suburban doctor’s wife is not what you really want. Your old contacts have lured you back. You tell John that he mustn’t try to find you. And, finally, you make it clear that he has no claim on the child.”

Mary was skimming the words on the page. “You don’t tell him who the father is.”

“That news would be even more devastating to John than your departure. Charles Augustus Magnussen was a foul creature. For John to know that the woman who shared his bed also extended her favours to someone like Magnussen would cause him such anguish. As I said, I like John and do not wish to have him hurt more than absolutely necessary.” One thin finger pushed a Cross pen towards her. “Sign your name, dear, there is a aeroplane waiting for you out at Mycroft’s private field.”

“Where am I going?”

“Oh, with that I have been more generous than you actually deserve. You will be given a list of destinations once you are onboard and the choice will be yours.”

“All very far from here, I assume?”

“As far as one can get and still be on the same planet,” Mrs. Holmes said, sounding pleased.

“And if I refuse?”

“In that case, we will be forced to use a blunter instrument. Mycroft will simply guarantee that you end up being arrested and tried. Most probably in a country that continues to practice capital punishment. There are still a few.”

Mary Morstan, nee…well, never mind. Morstan or Watson or whatever name she claimed at any given time, she was no fool. After just a moment, she scribbled her name on the bottom of the letter and shoved it back across the table. “I hope you burn in hell, you and both your damned sons.” She only then became aware that two very large men had appeared next to her chair.

Mrs. Holmes smiled. “Thank you for joining me. These gentlemen will accompany you to the airfield. And Ms. Morstan?”

“What?”

“Do not entertain any idea of returning to Britain.”

Mary opened her mouth, but then realised that she had absolutely nothing to say. Finally, she managed to stand and follow the two men from the Palm Court. The pianist was playing something vaguely familiar, but Mary couldn’t remember the title. Something sentimental. John liked the song.

Her heart broke a little, but the primal instinct for survival overrode that temporary pain, as it always did for her. Her first handler, all those years ago, used to say that one could survive anything except death. [Well, unless you were that bastard Sherlock Holmes.] She lifted her head and walked out of the Palm Court with as much pride as a very pregnant woman who was on her way to exile could manage.

Already, one part of her mind was engaged in creating a different persona. A new name and history. In fact, she was almost looking forward to it. Truthfully, she had missed the excitement of her previous life.. Money would be no problem; John had never known about her various accounts in banks all over the world.

At least now she could raise her daughter unencumbered by any of John’s ridiculous notions of good and bad. She hated the look he gave her sometimes, an expression that was thoughtful and sad with more than a little anger mixed in. He judged her and what gave him that right?

A more cheerful thought struck her. It was obvious that a child with her genes and those of Charles Augustus Magnussen would be capable of setting the world on fire. Life could be good. Mary [Deborah? Constance?] was almost smiling as she maneuvered herself into the back seat of the black limo.

 

*

Back within the civilized environs of the Palm Court, Mummy Holmes slowly and carefully ate the last bite of her second crumpet, even though it had gone cold. She was quietly content with how her afternoon had gone. In a moment, she would take out her mobile and send a text to Mycroft. He would be pleased as well.

Sherlock would never know what had happened here, of course. It was better that way, because the silly boy always got so upset when his family interfered. Even when that interference moved him closer to his heart’s desire.

Sherlock’s heart. There was a subject worthy of consideration and she had spent decades doing just that.

She had always known her son had a heart and also that it was larger and so much more fragile than the world realised. Which is why he had guarded it so fiercely over the years. She had known, as well, that if ever Sherlock decided to give his heart away, it would be for life. There was no way she would ever allow that precious organ to be broken again.

Luckily, despite a few bumps in the road, she was convinced that John Watson would prove to be a safe guardian of her son’s heart. Especially now that the biggest obstacle of all had been removed. Really, one had to wonder what John had been thinking of with that whole debacle. Still, it was all fixed now.

She smiled gently and reached for her mobile. Mycroft would be waiting and she did not want him to fret. His job gave him enough stress as it was. It occurred to her, now that Sherlock was on the proper path to happiness, that perhaps she should turn her attention to her older son. She could only hope that there would be less drama involved in getting Mycroft settled.

She sighed. The things a Mummy would do for her children.

***

**Author's Note:**

> It is my hope that my lengthy AU will be finished by the time I get back from London. Thanks for your patience and I hope you will feel it was worth it at the end!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [It's All in the Cards- 8 of Wands reversed/ Queen of Cups reversed/ 3 of Wands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4399664) by [mphelmsman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mphelmsman/pseuds/mphelmsman)




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